My Girl on Fire
by AuthorGemorah
Summary: Peeta has always had a crush of the mysterious girl from the seam. But everything changes for the worst when they are thrown into the Hunger Games together? Will his survival instincts take over? Is she to be trusted? The Hunger Games in Peeta's point of view


**Happy Easter! So, yes, I love the Hunger Games, and when I was reading it again for like the seventieth time the other day, it struck me that I've never though of what things were like for Peeta, and suddenly, this fanfic formed in my mind. I hope you like it. Enjoy, and please leave a review so I know what to improve for the next chapter. Thank you!**

**Chapter 1**

I wake with a start, the realisation of why I have woken at once setting in. It is the same reason I have slept for only three hours last night, the same reason that for the last three weeks, I have woken up, frozen by nightmares. This is the day of the reaping.

On reaping day, there isn't a single person who sleeps well. How can they, knowing that in only a few hours names, two unlucky children with have their names selected out of thousands, which in District 12, condemns you to death - we haven't had a winner since Haymitch Abernathy, who one when my parents where children. I think even my mother feels some fear for her children, though knowing her it can't be much. We don't have the most loving relationship.

Ordinarily, our family sleeps it, trying to regain the lost sleep from previous nightmare-haunted nights, and the torturous nights to come, knowing that when we wake, we'll have to watch a televised killing spree of innocent children. I remember one time, I had just caught the flu. My mother made my climb out of bed to sit on the sofa and watch it with the rest of them. My eyes were so weepy I could barely see the TV, which I suppose is a bonus, but it meant that my brothers had to commentate every last detail to me so that if I was tested at school, just to ensure I was watching, and they are known to be thoughtless and gory. I think it was worse than watching it with my own eyes.

Today, I do no such thing. I have spent all night drifting in and out of unpleasant dreams, waking on almost every hour, so now I give up. Why force myself to relieve all of the previous games, probably more gory that before? Instead, I dress in my usual thin, black trousers, my shirt with multiple holes, and my regular apron, a necessity in our bakery.

Though I should spend my time making the usual preparations, I find that it is easier to turn my focus to the thing I was born to do: bake. Some people say they were born to run, to sing. I was born to bake. It seems obvious really, though my mother often points out that in the case of their dead, my oldest brother is to inherit the bakery as the rightful heir and her only son safe from the Hunger Games now. He doesn't even like baking, and neither does my second brother, the second oldest, but to our parents, that doesn't matter. What matters is surviving, even if that means sacrificing what you do want to do for what you are destined to do.

On the other hand, I believe my father would be much more obliged to leave the bakery to me, his only son who enjoys the work and is completely happy to help, but when it comes to my mother, his opinion doesn't count.

Whilst the rest of my family goes about regular Hunger Games preparation (setting up the TV so that the Games will be shown in the comfiest position, and should the Peacekeepers call, the most obvious place, among other preparations), I begin to weigh out ingredients, slinging a sack of flour over my shoulder and carrying it to the kitchen. It's no strain for me, despite its hefty size, but I guess this is one of the advantage of working in the bakery since I could toddle about of two slightly chubby legs. Then I mix, kneading the dough in a relaxing manor. I've heard that kneading bread is almost therapeutic, and I suppose it is, yet I'm so used to doing it, it's like a second nature to me, so I don't notice.

Once kneaded, I slice the dough into smaller balls, creating individual rolls and coating them with a thick sprinkling of cheese, sliding them into the great oven to cook. Then I wait. And now I've finished, there is nothing to prevent my thoughts from returning to the games, from returning to hell.

You see, you become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That year your name is entered once. At thirteen, it is entered twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year you will be entered, seven times in total. That's how it is for every citizen of every District.

For some people there's a catch. When your poor and starving, the Capital shows its 'generous' side, by allowing the eligible children to sign up for tesserae, which provides you with that little bit more rations. My family has never needed tesserae, because as far is District 12 goes, we are fairly well off, but we a few in a thousand. For the poor starving children who do have to sign up, every tesserae package means their names entered in another time. I've heard stories of children being entered forty-two times. It shames me to say my name has only been entered four times in comparison. But there's nothing I can do about that.

Finally, after what feels like hours of waiting, the bread is done and I can refocus my thoughts on the bread. I pull them from the oven, hardly twitching as my hand brushes against the boiling hot sides, and leave them to cool. Once they are cool, I slice them open and prepare them to put in the window, keeping one back for myself as a good luck gift. But as I place them in the display window, I see two children, around twelve years old, and I know it must be their first reaping day. I wonder if this is the bargain. If you agree to go along, you can have a loaf of piping hot bread, fresh from the bakery. That's what my father told me when I was too scared to attend the first time. But as I examine them more closely, I'm sure this isn't the case.

These children have straggly dark hair, sticking up and out in every direction, their eyes dark too, and their skin the familiar olive colour that every citizen of the Seam has. These children are poor, coming to get a closer look at the few good things their life offers, even when those luxuries are on the other side of the window.

Glancing back into the empty kitchen, I grab two rolls and slip quickly outside. The children see me coming and turn to run but I call out to them. "It's okay. I got you a roll each. They're cheesy and fresh. It's a gift, on your first reaping day."

They stop running and turn hesitantly towards me. The girl, so small she resembled a mouse, edged closer, snatching the roll from my hand and running back to her friend. I hold out the other roll further, stretching the roll closer to the boy. The girl takes a huge bite, muttering something I can't understand to the boy through a mouthful of crumbs, and he finally edges forward in a similar manor. They take eager bites, smiling slightly at me before running down an alleyway to finish their gifts where no one can take them away. I return inside.

My mother stands in the kitchen, her hands on her hips. "Peeta, what were you doing talking to those scumbags from the Seam?" she asks. I resist the urge to shout at her that they're just children with no chance in life but a job in a coal mine, hardly a well-paid job and often dangerous but I bite my tongue.

"They came begging," I say, "so I chased them away."

She nods in approval and I think she believes me. It is only a matter of time before she realises where half the burnt buns that should be feed to the pigs actually go.

"It's time you go dress. We want you to look smart should you have the honour," she says, not finishing her sentence. I nod, and walk to my bedroom to find a pale blue shirt and a pair of my oldest brothers best reaping trousers. He no longer needs them. I dress and check in the mirror, but I still look like the same boy with ashy blond waves that cover my forehead, stocky build and of medium height. My father calls up the stairs to me that we leave for the square in ten minutes, and I call back that I'll be ready. But first I'll allow myself just two human minutes.

What do I think of? There's only one person my thoughts are of on a day like this. She has dark hair braided down her back, dark eyes that are big and round and olive skin. Katniss Everdeen. I take a few seconds to wish her luck inside my head, and a few more for pray for her loved ones too. This has been a ritual ever since I first lay eyes on her in school assembly once, and has worked so far. Because the only thing worse that entering the games myself, is the possibility of Katniss being reaped instead.

Once I have prayed, I run down the stairs and leave the house, making my way to the square, the pit of my stomach stirring with dread, with only moments between the tributes being picked and now. It is time.

I have never liked the square. It's too open, two empty. I much prefer the safety of the bakery, but who doesn't prefer the safety of their own home from a place where a lottery is held to choose who shall die and who shall live for another year. To add to my distaste, my father has often told me stories of the days when he was a boy, and the square would be the place where whippings or hangings were held. Ever since I heard the first of the tails, I have never been able to picture it the same.

The square is large, already packed with people, but there are still more to arrive. For three days peacekeepers have been setting up large screens in the side streets so that those who can't squeeze into the square can still see everything that happens anyway. On the building tops, more peace keepers are perched with cameras and you know from here on in, every move is being watched. Banners hang from buildings. It's a tense atmosphere.

People file in silently and sign in, the boy's herded to the right, the girls to the left, youngest at the back, oldest at the front. I am roughly in the middle to the right, with a good view of the walkway and the stage. Family members stand around the outside, though mine are sure to have a bad view, somewhere in a side street. Usually the family members of first timers get to stand the closest. Maybe so that it hurts that much more if one of them is called. And I can see her.

It's hardly anything, but I can see her dark, un-missable braid in the middle of her section. She stands rigidly, craning her neck to see the group of children at the back. I follow her gaze to a little girl with long fair hair in two plaits, wearing a shirt that has become untucked at the back, almost like a duck tail. This must be Katniss's sister. Primrose, I think is her name.

Then her attention moves to our side of the square, and I wonder for a moment if she's seen me watching her, but her gaze isn't on my. She's making eye contact with a boy at the front who looks so much like her he could be her brother, but I know for a fact he isn't. Her cousin maybe?

The square fills with more and more people until we are practically packed like slaves in the boats, waiting as every second seems to drag on for longer and longer. I keep my eyes glued to the temporary stage constructed in front of the Justice Building, holding another large screen, three chairs and a microphone, along with two glass balls filled with slips of paper and names people pray won't be called.

As the clock strikes two, the mayor who previously occupied one of their chairs takes to the stage, murmuring in a dull tone the usual script about the uprising that resulted in the yearly 'entertainment'.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," he drones.

Then he lists the victors, and as if on cue, Haymitch, the only surviving victor of District 12, staggers onto stage, shouting something unintelligible to the crowd and falling into the third chair beside Effie Trinket. He's drunk of course, as he is every year. I join in the token applaud and smile slightly to myself as low giggles run around a few of the younger ones. It's a relief to know they aren't all scared out of their wits. At least not completely.

He doesn't acknowledge us though, instead turning to give Effie hearty hug, which she shakes off as quickly as possible. I can't imagine what it's like for him, to have to live with the memories, pretending to be okay when he has pushed everyone in District 12 away and turn to drinking to drown his sorrows. The memories would keep you fearful for the rest of your life, and compared to others, I think Haymitch handles it very well, besides the fact that for most of the time, he is completely out of it.

As if she's desperate to escape, Effie stands and totters forward to the microphone, her heals so high it looks as though at any moment she will overbalance. Not that it will matter much. Haymitch has already provided enough entertainment to keep the Capital happy for months.

She taps gently on the microphone and beams when it echoes around the square. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favour!" She is the average Capital citizen, layered in white make-up, a pale pink wig that is slightly off centre, and a spring green suit. Her speech is the same as every year. She speaks of the honour it is to escort District 12 and babbles on in her high pitched voice as she always does. Then finally, she calls out to the crowd, "Ladies first," as is customary in all reaping's.

This is it. The first to be condemned will be called, and we shall all lower our heads in sorrow. Who will be the unlucky tribute this year? I cross my fingers for every girl I know, and more. For Katniss and Primrose, for Delly Cartwright (a childhood friend), for the little girl outside the bakery. Let it be an older girl, one who's had more food that the usual citizen of the seam, one who's got far more chance at winning that the twelve year olds at the back.

But as Effie reaches in, digging deeps and pulling out a piece of paper, that it won't be an older girl. I hold my breath as she crosses back the podium, smoothing out the slips of paper, and reads out the name as clearly as possible. It's Primrose Everdeen.

Why Primrose? Anyone but Primrose!

A low murmur runs through the crowd and I groan with them. Why a twelve year old? And why Katniss's sister? The girl she has spent years fighting to keep alive. The girl she would do anything for. Like volunteer.

I turn unhappily to watch Katniss's face, when all other eyes are of the girl with fair haired plaits and a shirt falling loose at the back like a ducks tail. Katniss's mouth has fallen slightly open, and a girl beside her is holding her up as she gasps for breath. I know what will happen before it has. But I'm not kept waiting long.

As Primrose reaches the steps leading to the stage, Katniss's face snaps in her direction and she jumps into motion. "Prim!" she cries in a strangled tone. "Prim!" she says again, louder this time, as the crowd around her parts and she pushes her way through. She takes a path straight to the stage, pushing Prim behind her and standing defiantly before the Major.

"I volunteer!" she gasps. "I volunteer as tribute!"

And it is done. She's said it. The one girl I have always dreaded most entering the games has volunteered to enter, volunteered to die. I don't have a moment to admire her bravery, or to yell to her to run while she still can. Effie turns to her with a startled but pleased smile and says, "Lovely! But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" Her voice trails off.

A small flicker of hope flashes through me and for a moment I wonder if she will rethink her offer and decline, saving herself. But this is Katniss, whose instincts tell her to give her life before her sisters. She won't change her mind at all.

"What does it matter?" the Mayor says in a pained tone. "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

Prim begins screaming hysterically from behind Katniss, flinging her arms around her. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

"Prim, let go," I hear Katniss demand harshly, but I isn't because she doesn't love her sister. From her heroic act, it is blatantly obvious that she worth's Prims life more than her own, but I can imagine it stems from the strain, of trying not to cry. "Let go!"

A dark shape blocks my view, and I strain my neck trying to see who it is. Its Gale Hawthorn, Katniss's cousin. He takes Prim from Katniss, holding her tight as she thrashes in his arms. "Up you go, Catnip," he says in a strangled tone that he's trying to keep steady. Then he turns to carry Prim off to her mother's soothing arms.

Why does he take her away? Why doesn't he protest for Katniss's sake, proclaim that this is ridiculous and that Katniss can't volunteer? But his is Prim's cousin too, and I suppose that he is helping Katniss with her wish, whilst saving Prim from harm as well, the youngest, most vulnerable, and weakest of the pair. He's doing what he thinks is right. But nothing in these games are right, don't they see that?

My eyes are glued to Katniss as she climbs the steps and takes her place besides Effie. "Well, bravo!" gushes Effie, and I hate her for her joy over Katniss being picked. "That's the spirit of the Games! What's your name?"

I hold my breath as she answers in a slightly shell shocked tone. "Katniss Everdeen."

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't what her to steal all the glory, do we?" Glory? Is that what she thinks this is about? Isn't it obvious that the reason Katniss has given up her life and safety isn't for glory or jealousy, but for love? "Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

No one claps, but instead, to my horror, from every direction, they silently press the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and then hold them out to her, a symbol of admiration often used at funerals.

I feel my throat closing in on my, and my heart stops beating all together, or it feels like it. I am in serious danger of crying.

Haymitch hollers, "Look at her. Look at this one. I like her. Lots of…" He pauses to think of a word. "Spunk! More than you! More than you!" he repeats to no one in particular. The Capital audience maybe? Then he falls off the stage, knocking himself out in the process.

As he is carried away in a stretcher, Effie babbles about the excitement of the day and totters over to the male's ball, reaching her hand in and selecting a slip. I don't have a chance to pray for myself or my brother, or even the little boy from the bakery, or Gale for Katniss's sake. I only hope he is young, so that Katniss stands more chance of winning. It can't be any worse than the current situation, can it?

I am wrong.

"Peeta Mellark."

That's me…


End file.
